Operation Drumbeat Read online

  Speed and range were the controlling factors that led to surface travel. With diesel engine power 123 could make a maximum speed of 18′A knots on the surface, faster than merchantmen and some escort vessels. At an economy speed of 12 knots she could cruise over a range of 8,700 nautical miles without refueling. At 10 knots the radius of action would extend to 12,000 miles. Submerged, however, she could make only 7.3 knots maximum. Even at an economy speed of 4 knots the storage batteries that ran her E-Maschinen, electric motors, underwater would give out of power after only 64 miles. And to fully recharge the batteries required a U-boat to run its dieseis on the surface for seven hours.

  Eins Zwei Drei, Schulz told Tolle, was a Type IXB Atlantikboot, an improved version of the Type IXA, which had itself evolved from the U-81 design of the last war. Because of its large size and wide, flat deck, U-boat men called the type See-Kuh (sea cow), after aquatic herbivorous mammals like the manatee. Though produced in far fewer numbers than the Type VII and though unable to dive quite as fast as the smaller VII—35 seconds as compared to 28—many in the fleet thought that it was the superior boat because of its excellent seakeeping qualities. Type IXB like its more numerous sister type IXC also had a longer range than the VII because of its larger fuel bunkers, carried a third more torpedoes, and provided one additional stern launch tube. In essence it was a long-distance high-seas boat designed for extended missions. Now, if one looked at the boat from the deck, as Tolle was doing, it appeared not very different from other boats and ships with which Tolle might be familiar. It had a knife-edged stem at the bow, a rounded hull, a deck, and a stern. Most of what Tolle saw, however, was not the U-boat. What he was seeing was the outer steel skin that encapsulated the U-boat.

  The boat itself was a long narrow cylindrical tube with a pressure hull made of welded high-tensile steel plates 20.5 millimeters thick and capable of withstanding some fifteen atmospheres of water pressure when submerged. This was probably the strongest hull in the whole of marine architecture. Within the pressure hull were all the engines and motors, controls, torpedoes, and, of course, the crew. The inner hull also contained trim tanks at each end and at the middle that held seawater pumped in or out to control the boat’s weight and hold it at a specific angle and depth while underwater. Outside the pressure hull were other tanks whose bulging forms could be seen at the waterline. Those were the ballast, or diving, tanks, which were flooded with water when the boat dived, and the fuel bunkers, or tanks, which contained diesel fuel needed for the engines. Schulz said that he would explain both of these tank systems to Tolle later. For now it was enough to point out that the ballast and fuel tanks were enclosed by a thin outer casing that, while not pressure resistant, provided an outer hull more suitable for surface travel than did the inner cylinder or hull. The outer hull, in fact, gave a U-boat the form more or less of an ordinary ship, including the flat deck on which he and Tolle stood. The thin outer skin was kept from being crushed by maintaining the pressure in the ballast and fuel tanks equal to the surrounding sea pressures. That was accomplished by vents and piping from sea to the tanks. Slots, or limber holes, in the deck structure allowed drainage when the boat was running on the surface and taking seas over the deck. They also drained the deck when diving to prevent air bubbles from hanging up the boat.

  This boat’s number, by the way, 123, did not designate her place in the sequence of U-boat construction or commissioning. U-l 16, 117, and 118, which were also IXB boats, all came down the ways a year after 123. The numbering system was meant to confuse the enemy-make him think there were more U-boats than actually existed. Whether it did so or not no one seemed to know. Schulz was unsure how much of this Tolle was absorbing, but he went on to cite some figures that, for an engineer, came readily to mind. The boat was 76.5 meters (251 feet) long, 6.8 meters (22′A feet) across the beam, and 4.7 meters (15′/2 feet) in surfaced keel depth. Displacement surfaced was 1,051 tons, submerged 1,178 tons. Did that mean anything to Tolle? Apparently not. Schulz noticed that the correspondent’s eyes were beginning to wander. Better give him something a little more human, he thought. The bridge atop the conning tower and the tower itself, with their instruments and controls, could wait for another time-someday, he mused, when Tolle was over the shock of what he would find later that same day belowdecks.

  He led Tolle forward along the gray surface pointing out as he went the aft bollards, stern navigation light, diesel engine exhaust port, aft ladder, radio antenna line, 3.7-cm gun, and watertight 2-cm ammunition container. He told Tolle that he would skip for now the flak platform with its black, bristling antiaircraft gun on the after part of the bridge—though he indicated the platform’s open sweeping rails and said that it was commonly called the Wintergarten, the only place on board where Tolle would be permitted to smoke, if he were so inclined—and that he would leave the bridge and interior of the conning tower for later; but that here, on both sides of the upper forward structure of the conning tower, was something that might interest Tolle. These, he said, were painted representations of the badge given to soldiers who had been wounded three times in battle: crossed swords against a helmet surrounded by laurel wreaths. This, Schulz said, was the insignia, or escutcheon, of the boat. Why the wounded badge? Because when 123 was under the previous command of Karl-Heinz Möhle, the boat was “wounded” three times: once when the crew accidentally shot into their own jumping wire, or net shield; another time when the boat was rammed by a steamer; and, finally, when bombs from a British aircraft damaged the outer hull. It was Möhle who chose the device. Reinhard Hardegen, when he took command, kept the device out of respect for the crew. And speaking of Möhle, Schulz continued, while the boat was under his command, it was chosen by the UFA motion picture studios for all the outboard action shots of a popular film called U-Boote westwärts (U-Boats Westward). Hardegen had seen the picture. So had most of the crew. And Schulz’s guess, he expressed with a laugh, was that the admiral had seen it, too. The title was a good omen, he said. Eins Zwei Drei might not be going to Gibraltar after all. And why was that worth mentioning? Because that was where most of the Type IXs had been stationed recently, and it was not good water for this size boat.

  One last thing, he said. When Tolle went below after departure he should ask someone right away for instructions on the operation of the head. And he should commit to memory what he heard. The valve sequence in the head was more complicated than all of Tolle’s Leica lens systems and light meters. Tolle should potty-train before he did anything else. There was no one on board to clean up after him. Now Schulz had to get back to his station. He advised Tolle to stand by the tower until he saw the rest of the crew go below and then follow them through the forward hatch. Someone would show him where to stow his gear—probably on his lap.4

  1045 hours. Hardegen wanted to be underway by 1100. He now set the maneuvering watch—mechanics in the engine room, electricians in the maneuvering room, helmsman, navigator, and deck force—and ordered the engine room to light up the twin dieseis and report when they were warm. At once the deck and tower began to shake from the first uneven combustions and a harsh rumbling noise filled the air. Atop the bridge Hardegen in his white-covered commander’s cap looked across at the crowd aboard ¡sere, now swelled by Blitzmädel, female naval telegraphers from the base, in their bright uniforms, who waved flowers at the rest of the crew now taking their positions on deck.

  Hardegen ordered Hoffmann: “Number One, muster boat’s company.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kaleu!”

  Under Hoffmann’s orders shouted down from the bridge the petty officers lined up their men in ranks along the decks fore and aft and detailed the deck force with their heavy gloves to handle the lines and the brow. Each element reported all hands present and accounted for (some more hung over than others). Hoffmann counted fifty-two officers and men including Tolle who watched excitedly as the petty officers ordered the ratings: “Eyes front! Parade rest!” The men took a spread-ankle position facing the pontoon with h
ands clasped behind their backs. On here the drum major struck the air with his mace and the jackbooted battalion band, heavy on horns, broke into the traditional “Siegfried-Line.” The watching crowd began to cheer.

  Hoffmann reported to Hardegen: “Ready forgetting under way, Herr Kaleu.”

  “Very well, Number One, prepare to cast off.”

  The dieseis had now warmed from a rough, vibrating rumble to a steady roar. Hoffmann lifted a megaphone to address the deck force, most of whom stood by the four bollards bow to stern. “Stand by all lines!” he shouted. “Single up all lines!”

  To others on the force who stood by the gangway he gave the order, “Take in the brow!” In peacetime departures the gangway would have been stowed on board but in wartime it was removed to the dock or pontoon, so the deck force assisted the wharf crew in snaking the brow across to Isere.

  It was time to release the lines that held 123 fast to her base. “Take in four!”—the farthest aft. “Take in three!”

  Now to draw the bow into the pontoon and get the stern angled out, “Shorten up on one!” The forward bollard crew pulled hard on their line. The boat positioned for sternway. Hoffmann put his mouth to the bridge voice pipe: “Both back one-third.” The engine telegraph rang. Driveshafts engaged with a sharp report, and twin bronze screws boiled the water aft as Hoffmann followed quickly with, “Take in one!”

  All that remained was the after spring as the boat moved stern-way into her prop wash. “Take in two!” provided the final release.

  The deck force stowed the hawsers as 123 backed smartly out from alongside ¡sere. The other crewmen on deck stood shoulder to shoulder with obvious pride. Above the bridge cowling Hardegen grinned broadly and waved. The commissioning pennant and naval ensign caught the breeze. The send-off crowd shouted hurrah three times.

  “Right twenty degrees rudder.” When Hoffmann had the boat in the channel he twisted to face the inlet. “Port screw ahead.” And when the desired position was established, he killed sternway. “Both ahead one-third. Rudder amidships.”

  For a moment 123 throbbed in place until the screws bit in and she gained headway. Unleashed as though by a coiled spring 123 put to sea on her seventh Feindfahrt—Hardegen’s third as her commander-trailing clouds of diesel smoke and the basso profundo of engines that almost overcame the clash and thump of “Englandlied” that drifted over the water from the battalion band. Ahead was the Bay of Biscay and, beyond it, the Atlantic.

  Hoffmann reported to Hardegen: “Eins Zwei Drei is under way, Herr Kaleu. We rendezvous ahead with our escort through the mine field.” The escort seen at station ahead, outside the harbor entrance, was a splinter-camouflaged Räumboot (R-boat) motor minesweeper.

  “Very well,” Hardegen acknowledged. “Both engines one-third to the second buoy. Fall out the crew once we pass Kernével.” Hardegen knew that the Admiral would have his 7 x 50 binoculars on 123 as she passed U-boat headquarters to starboard and the old French battlements of Port-Louis to port. If this was going to be his last mission, he wanted it to look good from the start.

  After the boat passed Larmor-Plage and began to leave behind the oily, brackish water of La Rade de Lorient, Hardegen yielded the conn to Hoffmann and stepped aft to the Wintergarten, where he could lean against the rails and watch the receding harbor structures. At the second buoy Hoffmann ordered all the boat’s company except the deck force below. The petty officers and ratings passed quickly and easily-down the hatches; awkwardly Tolle followed last down the forward ladder. The deck force checked all hatches and ammo containers; pushed home the watertight tampions that sealed the muzzles of the heavily greased deck guns; stowed the Christmas trees, ensign, and pennant; and cl eared the AA gun. To Hoffmann they reported:

  “Upper deck readied for diving, Herr Oberleutnant!”

  “Very well,” Hoffmann acknowledged. Calling rudder changes to the helmsman in the tower below he maneuvered 123 alongside the waiting R-boat and came to her course 250. At the same time four seaman lookouts in gray-green leather coveralls came up the tower ladder to join Hoffmann on the bridge watch. Four lookouts with the best pairs of eyes on board would attempt to get 123 safely through the first hours of the hazardous patch known as Totenallee— “death row”—the Bay of Biscay, a passage that normally took forty-eight hours before a U-boat reached the open Atlantic. From this point on there would be no more uniforms, no more standing in file, no more saluting, and the commander would be known by officers and ratings alike as the Old Man.

  Hoffmann turned toward the Old Man in the Wintergarten and shouted loudly over the dieseis: “First Watch Officer reporting watch set and boat ready for action, Herr Kaleu!”

  “Very well, Number One. Maintain speed even with the R-boat.”

  Before long the navigator assistant Bootsmann Walter Kaeding ascended to the bridge to take departure sightings on the French coast. From these diopter numbers he would begin his dead-reckoning (DR) chart for the voyage. The construction cranes over Keroman provided one mark, a church steeple slightly to starboard another, and Belle lie just visible to the south a third. Kaeding called the range and bearing numbers down the tower hatch, then lingered on the Wintergarten with the Old Man through the next hour as the last thin streaks of land faded in the gathering sea mist and 123 cut loose from the main. He wondered how many French men and women, having sighted 123 from the shoreline, would pass word of the boat’s departure through Resistance channels to London. No matter. The chambermaids would have known already. And the dockworkers. And the whores. The only secret that had remained intact was the boat’s destination. Kaeding could draw the chart lines that showed where 123 had been and where she was now. Only the Old Man could draw more. Or could he? Kaeding looked across at Hardegen whose face betrayed nothing.

  At 1330 from port side the R-boat escort notified 123 that she had passed safely through the swept channel of the coastal minefield and was on her own. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, concluded the semaphore, GOOD HUNTING. By voice pipe Hoffmann ordered the helmsman: “Steady on new course two-seven-five. Ring up engines both ahead two-thirds.” As the R-boat turned back toward shore, her exhaust describing a tight arc and her crewmen anticipating warm baths, clean sheets, and occasional soft company, ¡23′s crew, with a very different set of expectations, braced themselves for a long, hard vigil on the winter sea. Things were not bad yet: wind west, sea force 2, a slight swell, temperature 5.5 degrees Celsius. But meteorologists had been heard to say that this might be the worst Atlantic winter in fifty years. And every man on board—except Alwin Tolle—knew that nature could be a more miserable enemy than Tommies or Yankees.

  Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

  Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.

  And where the land she travels from? Away,

  Far, far behind, is all that they can say.5

  2

  Down to the Seas

  Fritz Rafalski: Sometimes he took too many risks.

  Heinz Barth: Too many risks.

  Richard Amsteirt: Yes, yes, he was full of risk.

  Barth: We often thought, how can he approach so close to a tanker? After being hit by torpedoes it explodes, and then we’re in danger. That’s what we thought. I don’t know if anyone ever said that to him. We didn’t say it out loud.

  Amstein: Yes, who would have told him such a thing?

  Barth: Well, the LI or the first watch officer could have said, “Herr Kaleu, you shouldn’t do that. Keep your distance.” Or something like that. But our trips were very risky.

  Karl Latislaus: And Hardegen would always be the first to attack. And then, of course, the first to sail back home. That’s why we had the whole defense on our tails. But our first commander, Möhle, was more cautious.

  Barth: Yes, he wasn’t scared, but he considered things well before acting. But Hardegen was more or less a daredevil.

  Amstein: Yes, with Möhle his first priority was the boat and the crew. We can’t say that about Hardegen.

&nb
sp; Latislaus: Yes, we were truly very lucky.

  Barth: Very lucky.

  Karl Fröbel: But don’t forget, as young men we were inspired by his courage and his daring. We always trusted him.

  Amstein: That we did.

  Fröbel: Often we’d ask each other, “What’s he pulling this time?” And when he stayed on the surface until the very last second, and we could already see the enemy aircraft bearing down on us, and he gave the signal to dive at the very last second, we’d say, “Well, he pulled it off again today.” The older men, of course, thought differently because they had wives and children. But the young crewmembers supported their commander. We always said, “He did it again.”

  Kaeding: Of course, there was never a crew that was one hundred percent satisfied with their commander. The worst thing, the worst that could happen to a commander was failure. A commander who missed his targets—that would demoralize an entire crew. But you can’t say that about Hardegen.

  Fröbel: No. We went from success to success.

  Bad König/Odenwald, Germany 8-9 November J 985

  Fiercely independent men came out c.” Bremen, on the Weser River thirty-six miles inland from the North Sea. For twelve centuries the city-state produced mariners, merchants, and artisans who set their own peculiar style on trade routes and markets around the world and yielded to no one in their pride of place. As late as Reinhard Hardegen’s birth there on 18 March 1913, one heard on the streets the special Plattdeutsch dialect that combined elements of Dutch, Danish and English, and learned from the oldest citizens how generations of burghers had resisted the reputed authority of dukes, counts, barons, and archbishops to claim sway over them. Hardegen’s father was a teacher of history, geography, and French at a local Gymnasium (high school) and had written a number of books, including biographies of King Henry II of England and H. H. Meyer, founder of the North German Lloyd [steamship] Line. It was the sea above all that prevailed in Bremen. Through the Weser opening to the world’s oceans the city offered its “virtuous Bremer youth” a frontier for exercising their inbred passion for independent life. And it was the smell of the sea and the sight of great-hulled vessels splashing to their moorings, and the inventory of cargoes from romantic ports that piled up on the docks-coffees, teas, spices, wines, and textiles—and the swagger of seamen through the market square that planted in Reinhard Hardegen’s mind the resolution that when he grew up he, too, would go to sea. Not every boy his age was of the same mind: Some had heard of the sea’s hard ways, ot the boredom and ol the lear, and they aimed for a career on land. But young Hardegen was plainly seastruck. In his games every puddle, every washbasin, became an ocean. Tw igs became his frigates and matchboxes his tankers. Later it was warships that dominated his fantasies, from pirate vessels that flew the Jolly Roger to submarines—the latter fantasy assisted by a windup toy Unterseeboot that performed heroic deeds both on and below the bathtub water.